


A King Both False and True

by ennta



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-02-29 20:53:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18786016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ennta/pseuds/ennta
Summary: Loras Tyrell was a true knight, once, a true knight who served a true king.





	A King Both False and True

“And how many kings have you served, now, ser?”

Loras recognizes that tone of voice; he remembers when it had flavored his own words, a thousand thousand years ago. “Three,” he says, head bowed, knelt before this new king in an old king’s castle. “One true and two false.”

“There have been no true kings since my father was slain,” this _true_ king sniffs.

Loras looks up into violet eyes that hint at dragon blood. “There was one,” he insists, “and Storm's End was his home. But you have nothing to fear from him, unless you fear the dead.”

Aegon Targaryen’s chin jerks up. “I do not fear the shades of pretenders and usurpers. And I do not see the wisdom in trusting your family’s pledge of fealty. What is to prevent them from switching sides again?”

“You have a hostage, Your Grace.”

Aegon considers that for a moment. “Then you would do well to serve me as you served your true king,” he finally says, “so that I will have no cause to doubt your allegiances.”

“As I served my true king.” Loras feels laughter wild as madness roiling in his throat. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

***

 _I can’t I can’t I can’t_ , Loras thinks, because sometimes he thinks in circles and sometimes in straight lines and sometimes he gets stuck on a thought or a phrase and repeats it while his hands do what they will. Right now they are gathering a deep green coverlet from the bed Aegon has taken for his own. The blankets are Renly's, and Aegon has no right to sleep beneath them. 

 _I can’t I can’t I can’t_ , Loras thinks, and slips into the squire’s bedchambers adjoining the lord’s quarters. The bed is bare and narrow, set beneath a high window, and Loras curls up onto it, tugging the coverlet around him.

What is it he _can’t_? He is breathing, his heart is beating, he can see and hear and smell. But there is a wall inside of him, and trying to move forward day by day is like crashing into that wall over and over and over again, a thousand thousand times to no effect.

 _I can’t I can’t I can’t._ Ghosts stir in the shadows around him as he falls asleep, feeling everything and nothing at all.

***

Loras jerks awake at the sound of a dull thump somewhere outside his room. His dreams whisper and echo in his head as he reaches instinctively for a weapon, only to remember that all his weapons had been stripped from him upon his arrival at Storm’s End.

He doesn’t move until he hears the click of a latch and the creak of hinges. Sounds so familiar, sounds that once meant _laugh and burrow beneath the covers_ , sounds that once meant _Loras, didn’t I tell you to lock the door?_ Sounds that mean _move_.

Loras _moves_ , steps lithe and careful through the doorway, sees the glint of moonlight off a knife and a shadow hulking over the shape of a king, a king under coverlets red as blood.

 _He can’t he can’t he can’t_ , and Loras rushes the shadow, the ghost, the memory; whatever it is, he slams it into the wall, scrabbles for the knife, grabs the blade in his hand and closes his palm around it to rip it away.

 _He can’t he can’t he can’t_ , and the man’s throat yawns open under the edge of the blade Loras stole from him. The man topples to the side, upsetting a table next to the bed, sending a candelabra and a stack of books spilling onto the floor.

Loras falls to his knees. There will be shouting and movement and light soon, and he wants no part in it, but he cannot bring himself to stand. A light flickers beside him, a brazier beating back the darkness, and now he can _see_

\--the man sprawled on the floor before him head lolling unnaturally a second mouth gaping open below his jaw a second mouth spurting blood a second mouth smiling, smiling, smiling, another mouth lopsided asking _loras, where were you loras when my crown fell from my brow, loras this red smile is the last i’ll ever give you_ \--

He drops the knife, and the grip is red with his own blood; he looks down at his ruined palm, but it means nothing. He has been bleeding for a thousand thousand years.

“ _You saved me_.”

Loras tries to draw a breath and fails. He gasps, taking in air, but there is not enough air in the room to fill his lungs and _he can’t he can’t he can’t_ he can’t _breathe_. He falls onto his hands and stares at the thick rug beneath him, but there is blood on the rug, blood like rubies.

“What were you--what were you _doing_ in here?”

There’s a hand on his back, running up and down his spine, hesitant but welcome, so welcome. Loras breathes in time with each caress and presses his palm down _hard_ to let the pain bring him back.

“Loras.” It’s the first time the dragon king has said his name. “Loras, what were you doing here? How did you know?”

“This is my home,” Loras says, breath catching on every word. “I wanted to sleep in my bed.”

Slim fingers catch Loras’s jaw and tilt it up. Aegon is frowning. “Whatever the case may be, you have done me a great service, ser.” The tips of his fingers are calloused and warm. His eyes are warm as well.

Loras pushes himself back up onto his knees and reaches out to take Aegon’s face between his palms. Aegon blinks but doesn’t pull away, confusion on his face, and Loras leans close to press their lips together. He can almost taste the slick iron scent of the blood on his skin, but more than that he tastes chapped lips and warm stale breath with the memory of lemon water lingering upon it. He tilts his head so that his nose fits against Aegon’s, so that he can feel the hitch of Aegon’s breath, and then he pulls away.

There is a bloody handprint on Aegon’s cheek, and a crimson blush beneath it. He swallows thickly, his eyes wide.

“That is how I served my true king,” Loras says, and that mad laughter bubbles up inside him again. “But as you are still alive, and he is not--” Loras takes a great, shuddering breath. “--I would say I’ve served you better.”

“Some of my men say you’re mad,” Aegon whispers.

Loras has lived a thousand thousand years and served a thousand thousand kings. “And if I am?”

“I am a Targaryen.” Aegon moves closer and places a hand on Loras’s shoulder. He looks at that hand with a furrowed brow, as though wondering how it had got to be where it was. “I’ve read our histories, studied our triumphs and our failures. I’m well acquainted with what men deem madness.” He moves his hand to Loras’s face, tracing the line of his jaw. “You are not mad, Ser Loras. And I would have you by my side even if you were.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://knight-of-the-flowers.tumblr.com)


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